


shards of our souls

by a_wonderful_disaster



Category: Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: AU, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_wonderful_disaster/pseuds/a_wonderful_disaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gets a phone call in her Chicago office late one night. He is calling and even though she knows that it is a terrible idea, she meets him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shards of our souls

# shards of our souls

I am sitting here in this small dingy bar and am considering what I was thinking coming here. What does an intelligent girl do if she gets a call from the man that broke her heart into millions of tiny pieces and then runs without a word, like a disgusting little coward? She surely doesn't meet him in a god damned bar which definitely has the desperate need of a good interior designer. What am I doing here? Let him back into my life like nothing happened, just to watch him tear us apart again? Definitely not. Well, what am I doing here again?

The door creaks open and all the patrons turn their heads towards the door to watch the newcomer suspiciously. It's not like there were many people there in the first place, no, but the clientele of this place is not the sort of people I see myself in the company of gladly. One of them is a tremendously fat man with way too tight shorts and a tee with the imprint of _Body by Beer_. Very flattering. The other man is a person in whose case I am not entirely sure if the terrible smell oozing from his general direction is emited by him or by his dog.

The newcomer walks towards me unperturbed before he sits in the chair in front of me. I just look at him and wave at the waiter. I need another wodka. I am by no means an alcoholic, but this man always knew how to push my buttons just right, so I take the right precautions. He just raises an eyebrow as the drink is placed in front of me and keeps staring at me.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Money?" I suggest.

"Drugs?" Silence.

"Sex?" At that, a faint smile crosses his lips, but it is gone as soon as it appeared. After another minute of silence he answers me.

"No, Kitty. I just want to talk."

I huff. "What is it you want to talk about so badly? How good we were? How much you still love me?"

When we were togehter, his idea of talking included both of us lying to each other, a great deal of yelling and things being thrown; sometimes at each other, sometimes just to spite the other. I move to grab my drink, but he is faster than I am and pours the contents on the hardwood floor. The waiter eyes him annoyedly but keeps silent. Apparently he is used to such behaviour from his clients.

"You shouldn't drink, Kitty." He smiles at me ruefully, "Stop it as long as you still can."

I laugh incredulously. That is the man that used to empty various bottles of alcohol daily, the exact same man that broke down completely shitfaced in front of me and told me about his undying love for me at least twice a week.

"That's very rich comming from you." I retort.

"I haven't had a drop in over a year. I'm clean." He mumbles and looks down at his hands. Now it is my time to stare. Incredible what time can do to people.  
"Stan signed me."

"Bowman?" I am now glad that I don't have a drink any more, considering I would have choked on it at these news. 

"They want to make it official in a week." He glances at me and I take in his demeanour. He looks good, for his standards. A little worn out, maybe, but not nearly as much as last time I saw him. He has gained some weight too and the still long hair is cut and combed neatly. It looks almost obsessive.

"Bowman hasn't even talked to me about it yet." I sigh, "He does want to make my life as hard as possible, doesn't he?"

"You're really their PR manager, aren't you?"

"Have been since 2011." I still look at him, but he seems to be oddly intrigued by his hands again. "So, what would you like to talk about?"

"About us." He answers, barely above a whisper. He just looks up when he hears the legs of my chair scratch the floorboards as I get up to leave. The puppy eyes he gives me almost break my resolve to leave this bar right then and there, but I'm prepared. We won't do this again.

"Kitty, please. Sit." Even though the pain in his voice breaks my heart all over again, I can't be weak now. I need to be strong, for both his and my sake.

"No, Dean. I can't. This-" I mention at the space between the two of us, "-will never work. Do you remember us, the way we used to be? Do you want to be that person again?" He flinches, but I continue, no matter how much it hurts, "Do you want to be snorting coke off of each other again and downing a bottle of god knows what to it? Because I don't." I pause and touch his shoulder, "I hope you don't want that either."

"Kitty, I'm still so sorry..." he looks close to tears and I realize that if I don't leave now, I will be crying too.

"I am sorry too." I whisper, before I slip out of the door into the cold Chicago night leaving the shards of my soul at his feet in the dingy bar.

That night I dream of the stark red lines running across his arms and thighs, the spilled bottles of alcohol, and paradise powder again. 


End file.
